


you say go fast, i say hold on tight

by parentaladvisorybullshitcontent



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Enemies to Lovers, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23317783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/parentaladvisorybullshitcontent/pseuds/parentaladvisorybullshitcontent
Summary: He's Phil Lester, small independent bookshop owner, who wears graphic t-shirts and drinks too much coffee. That's it.Except when it isn't.In which Phil is sometimes a bookshop owner and sometimes a superhero, and Dan is a villain, of sorts.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 14
Kudos: 130
Collections: phandomficfests: escape from reality





	you say go fast, i say hold on tight

**Author's Note:**

> Written with help and guidance from the ever lovely Andrea (midnightradio on tumblr)! An icon 💖 title is from Dead of Night by Orville Peck 💖💖💖 andrea named it,,,,,,,their mind
> 
> I wrote this all in one go and I don't know where it came from but I've never written enemies to lovers so let's go

The bookshop is the perfect cover. No, it's more than that, it's the life Phil always wanted. Nice, easy days, his own coffee machine burbling away in the back room, brewing the cheapest ground coffee he can find. He'd love to say he spends his days directing people towards books on history or art, poring over new releases online and placing orders.

  
And alright, sometimes his days are like that. Most times. If customers ask, he's perfected the way he responds, the harried bookshop owner, wishing business was better and more people wanted to buy books. Sometimes he'll even let himself get drawn into a well-worn Kindle debate with an older customer, even though he has one at home - just playing the part, seeming as ordinary and nondescript as possible.

  
Which he is. He's Phil Lester, small independent bookshop owner, who wears graphic t-shirts and drinks too much coffee. That's it.

  
Except when it isn't.

  
That day, his wrist strap bleeps just as he's shelving some new arrivals. It's raining outside, the sound pattering against the roof in a soothing, white-noise kind of way, and he groans, closing his eyes. He'd really been looking forward to listening to some music, maybe, reading something new until his usual surge of customers at one o'clock.

  
His wrist strap bleeps again, insistent. Sighing, Phil sets the box of books down and walks up to the front door of the shop, locking it and flipping the sign to closed. He takes a second to look out at the rain washed street, then regretfully ignores his creeping desire for a cup of coffee in favour of hurrying to the back room of the shop and locking the door behind him.

  
Let it never be said he isn't thorough, at least.

  
"Yep?" He says, pressing the button on the wrist strap to open communications.

  
"You took your time," Martyn says. "Did you have a rush on people buying autobiographies or something?"

  
"Shut up. What is it?"

  
"It's him," Martyn says, and Phil gets this sharp feeling in his chest, like something prickly is stuck there, catching his insides. "Over at the central museum. Something about, I dunno, stolen artefacts, or something. Bold of him to suddenly care about theft, but." He pauses. "Are you still there?"

  
"I'm here," Phil says. His heart's beating too fast and he feels sick, not that he can tell Martyn that - much less _why_ he feels that way. "Can't you take this one?"

  
"No."

  
"But-"

  
"No, no way," Martyn says. "I promised Cornelia we'd go for lunch."

  
"He did," Cornelia chimes in, helpfully, in the background.

  
"Why?" There's a note of concern in Martyn's voice now. "Is everything ok? I was just kidding about the autobiographies thing."

  
"I know, I know, it's not that, it's." He swallows, hard. "Midday attacks aren't his usual MO. I take it he hasn't hurt anyone?"

  
"Same as always by the sound of it," Martyn says. "Blustering around with a weapon that probably doesn't work. One of the people stuck in the museum posted a video on Twitter."

  
"So he has hostages," Phil says, the thought strengthening his resolve. "Alright, I'll do it."

  
"Great," Martyn says. "Just hurry up before the armed police show up."

  
"On my way," Phil says.

  
-

  
He and Martyn have always been...different. When they were kids, they'd run around in the woods behind their family home, lifting fully-grown trees straight out of the ground, roots juddering in the air like shaking fingers. They'd crush boulders to dust and laugh until they couldn't breathe, until they were sick and stupid with it. A lot of their abilities are the same - they're both pretty strong ("I'm stronger, weed," Martyn has been known to say from time to time, like Phil's still six years old), and they both heal faster than the average person.

  
Martyn can fly. That one had stung, as a kid. Phil had spent years trying to learn, with Martyn guiding him every step of the way, but he could never do it. He only stopped trying when he was thirteen and he stepped off the garage roof, trying his best to believe, to copy the way Martyn moved as he was doing it, legs and arms and that serene quality to him, like he was lost in his own little world. Except instead of soaring into the air, he'd dropped to the ground like a stone and broken his shin. To say their parents hadn't been impressed was something of an understatement.

  
So flying was never gonna happen for him. But he can do something else, something just as useful, especially for moments like this when he doesn't have all that much time on his hands.

  
Martyn calls it teleporting, but Phil's never felt all that comfortable with the label. He just focuses on where he wants to go - or who he wants to get to. It's like the space between places and people can be flattened out into strands, and all Phil has to do to cross unimaginable distances is reach for those strands, wind his fingers in them and pull.

  
He pulls his disguise on, stupid mask down over his face so he can hardly breathe, and concentrates.  
He thinks about - about brown eyes, and the warmth of broad shoulders under his hands, the softness of lips. Heart thudding, he moves.

  
-

  
He ends up in a room in the museum dedicated to the Bronze Age, lots of little plaques explaining the significance of what seem to be stumps of rock. Phil breathes in that museum smell, fresh paper and gift shops, and moves fast.

  
He knows he's downstairs. He was just here - Phil's never wrong - so he rushes down the stairs. There are windows that look out onto the street below and Phil can see the police, cars and vans grouped around, but no sign of guns, not yet. They're holding back. Maybe they're waiting for him - that'd be nice, for once. He pushes through some double doors next to a lift and ends up in a high ceilinged room full of glass cabinets. It's darker in here, everything illuminated in blue, and Phil stops and waits.   
If his heartbeat is as loud as it feels, he thinks, everyone within two miles knows he's here. 

  
He take a cautious step forwards. This exhibit is about fashion, or something - there are just a lot of nice clothes on mannequins, with signs detailing their designers and the reason behind their creation.

  
"You know," He says, quietly, because he doesn't have to be loud - not for him. "I heard there's a sale at All Saints. No need for all of this."

  
Phil's been meaning to ask how he does it, and he really will, because one second Dan isn't there - nothing but mannequins and blue light for company - and then he is, like he was there all along.

  
"I was thinking about something more historical," He says. He isn't wearing his mask, and Phil's breath catches in his throat just from looking at him - from being able to look. "You took a while."

  
Phil blinks.

  
"I - I was busy," He says. "Dan, I..." And there's nothing he can say to change what he did, to make them both forget it ever happened. "You should put your mask on. The police are outside."

  
"I know. I let everyone go."

  
"You - what?"

  
"Once I knew you were coming," Dan says, with a shrug. God, look at his _eyebrows_ \- Phil's never been so fascinated by a person's eyebrows before. It's because he's never seen Dan's before, never even thought about them, and now there they are. "I don't actually want any of this stuff, Jesus. Codpieces aren't really my style, Phil."

  
"Don't -"

  
"Don't what?" Dan says, stepping closer. Phil stands his ground, gladder than ever for his mask. "Use your name? You just used mine."

  
"You're not wearing your mask," Phil says, weakly. "Dan, I-"

  
Dan rests a hand on the side of his mask. He can feel the weight of it, imagine what it'd feel like. He closes his eyes and allows himself a secret exhale.

  
"I don't wanna do this anymore," He says, quietly. God, his eyes. Phil could get lost in his eyes. His mouth is dry. "I never did, really. I just did it 'cause - 'cause I was bored, and uni didn't work out, and - and I've got, like, powers for a reason, right? Why not - why not commit petty crime in a dumb costume, you know?"

  
"I mean," Phil says, hoarsely. "I never came to that conclusion, but..."

  
Dan grins.

  
"'Course you didn't," He says. His smile fades a little. "Can I see you?"

  
It's enough to bring Phil back to his senses. He steps backwards, turning away, staring at one of the displays without really seeing it, his mind reeling.

  
"So you just - you disrupted a whole museum in the middle of the city for - for what? To get my attention?"

  
Dan shrugs when Phil looks over at him.

  
"It's not like I have your number." When Phil scoffs, turning away again, he adds, "I really don't think there's a moral high ground on this one, Phil. You kissed me, remember?"

  
Phil cringes, whole body flooding hot with embarrassment.

  
"That was - I thought you were _dead_."

  
It had been pure instinct, more than anything else. Two hours before, he'd seen Dan fall from a six storey building, heard the crash on the concrete below, but he'd been caught in a fight with someone else at the time and couldn't do anything about it, blind rage burning through him, consuming him. When he'd finally left the building, leaving the police busy handcuffing the idiots he'd been fighting, he'd breathed in the cold afternoon air for a moment, feeling like he might cry.

  
Stupid, really, to cry over a guy who caused nothing but trouble. 

  
To cry over a guy who brought him coffee sometimes - the pair of them sitting on high office buildings and telling stories. A guy who never hurt anyone, not really - in fact, as it went, was pretty small time compared to some of the idiots he and Martyn sometimes dealt with. Just a guy at a loose end with a flair for the dramatic, when it came down to it.

  
A guy Phil felt like he could really talk to, if he didn't always have his guard up, his mask on. Someone whose voice inexplicably soothed him, right down to his bones, even if it was wrong.

  
"You took your time," He'd said, out there in the alleyway in the rain, eyes bright.

  
Phil doesn't know what possessed him beyond blind, golden relief, to see him standing there, unharmed, in his stupid black costume. So he'd yanked up his mask just far enough and got close, the way he'd wanted to for a long time, hands touching Dan's shoulders, his forearms, his neck.

  
"You fell off a building."

  
"Like that'd be enough to kill me," Dan had said, with his usual obnoxious confidence. Then he'd touched Phil's exposed bottom lip with his thumb. Phil somehow felt that one small brush of skin against skin right down to his toes.

  
They'd both moved, but Phil had moved faster.

  
"Did it upset you?" Dan asks, now. "Thinking I was dead?"

  
"I - obviously. You're - God, I dunno!" He shakes his head, pacing a little like a trapped cat. "I came here to free your hostages and stop you stealing something, but since you set them free and you don't actually want to steal anything, then I can just go."

  
"Don't," Dan says, moving closer to him again. "I wanted to see you. To - to tell you I'm stopping all of this."

  
Phil looks at him. 

  
"Because I kissed you?" He asks, voice heavy with skepticism. 

  
"No," Dan says. His face is strangely shadowed in the oddly lit room - he could almost be a ghost. "I haven't wanted to do it for a while, I just - I liked seeing you. And I thought you liked seeing me, too."

  
"You're literally a _wanted criminal_ , Dan."

  
"Oh, whatever. When was the last time any scheme I came up with actually went anywhere?" He pauses. "Yeah, exactly. I haven't been trying. I just - I wanted to see you."

  
Phil's stomach feels light and fluttery, like he's seventeen again. 

  
"So, what?" He says, voice softer than he'd intended it to be. "You're obsessed with me? 'Til - 'til some other hero in a better suit than mine shows up, with fancier powers, and then you-"

  
"Stop, stop, shut up," Dan says. "I never cared about any of that. And I'm not _obsessed_ with you, Jesus Christ. I just - I want us to do normal things, like normal people do. More - more getting coffee and less - well, less _this_." He gestures around them at the deserted room. "I thought I was just - I thought it was just some stupid one-sided thing 'til you - well, 'til last time."

  
Phil doesn't say anything for a while. He thinks about the cavalcade of police vans outside, undoubtedly all waiting to swarm the building. He thinks about Martyn. He thinks about the bookshop, and his coffee machine.

  
He thinks about how often he thinks about Dan - daydreams about him in idle moments, wondering where he is and what he's doing. He thinks about how for the longest time now the fluttering in his chest he gets when he gets an alert is nothing to do with nerves and everything to do with anticipation - excitement at the thought of seeing Dan again.

  
He thinks about how it had felt to lose him, even though he hadn't been lost at all.

  
He closes his eyes for a moment, hardly daring to believe what he's about to do. Then he reaches up and pulls his mask off. Dan stares at him - really stares at him, eyes drinking him in, and he feels himself flush under the scrutiny.

  
"Let's get out of here," He says.

  
"God," Dan says. "That was lame. Have you been watching movies about, like, stoic superheroes? 'Cause it really doesn't suit you, Phil."

  
But he's close enough now to touch, thumb soft against Phil's cheekbone.

  
"Shut up," Phil says. He feels for the threads in his mind, thinks of books and overbrewed coffee and the quiet patter of rain.

  
In the next second, they're gone.


End file.
